


Lima Syndrome

by 2x2verse (agent_florida)



Category: Homestuck
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-27
Updated: 2012-12-27
Packaged: 2017-11-22 13:52:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,842
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/610511
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/agent_florida/pseuds/2x2verse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An inverse of Stockholm syndrome called "Lima syndrome" has been proposed, in which abductors develop sympathy for their hostages.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lima Syndrome

**Author's Note:**

  * For [firecrackerx](https://archiveofourown.org/users/firecrackerx/gifts).



“You are so beautiful.”

It takes you by surprise. How could you be? You’re beaten and broken, your skin blossoming in jade bruises. Circumstances being what they are, your frame is gaunt and skeletal, your horns dull, your hair tangled. And yet the Marquise is taking care of you. She drew a bath for you, sloughing the worst of the filth from your skin—teasing you with a sponge between your legs that left you prickling. Now, she’s brushing your hair and massaging life into your horns, whispering things to you that you’ve never whispered to anyone else. You can feel every single sensation, as if you’re truly present to enjoy this… but she couldn’t have relaxed her mind control on you, right?

“I’m so glad you came to me.” None of this experience is foggy—and yet you don’t have the urge to run for the door and throw yourself into the sea. She’s treating you kindly. You’re not used to this. You are the one who mothers everyone else, with no energy left over to care for yourself, and now this scorpion is rubbing lotion scented with the plunder of a thousand nations into your skin and cooing over you as if you were her child.

“I don’t understand,” comes unbidden from your mouth.

In response, she leaves a blue print of her lips across your bare shoulder. “If you are mine,” she says low into your ear, “I will care for you. Because when you take care of your things, they take care of you in return.”

She still thinks of you as a possession, then. “Are you going to plunder me?”

“Is that your desire?” Her mouth continues along the line of your shoulder, up to your neck, and you shiver under her touch. And yet she’s not influencing you in any way. This is your natural response to her advances.

You know you will hate yourself for saying this later. You’re willing to endure the point of a spade for the pity of her lust. “Yes,” you whisper.

The Marquise makes a purring noise in her throat; when you look behind you, her smile is fanged. The threat of her teeth ghosts along your skin, and then the texture of her nails, pointed and sharp-edged, runs along the vestigial legs at your waist. “Why are you shaking?”

How do you tell this pirate that you have never been touched like this before? What can you say to let her know of your virginal state? “Why are you doing this?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” Though her matron is a spider and her sign a scorpion, the way her words come past her teeth reminds you of a snake’s hiss. “I want you. I have wanted you from the moment I first laid eyes on you. I claimed you. You are mine now.” She takes a sort of savage pleasure in using that word for you. “Say it.”

One of her hands wanders to your hip, pulling her body close over yours so you can feel her mammary globes pushing into your bare back; the other one comes to gently encircle around the base of your neck, her thumbprint dangerously close to the puncture wounds on your throat. The words come easily to you, especially when she turns your head to kiss you oh so lightly on the lips. “Yours,” you say mindlessly. “I’m yours.”

“Mine,” she repeats, her voice warm and inviting. Her body feels solid and stabilizing against yours, a form for you to mold to. Why isn’t she being cruel? Why isn’t your owner treating you like her slave? Why is she pampering you and spoiling you? What is her ulterior motive? All of these questions fall away from you when she fits her fangs to the punctures already adorning you and bites, just hard enough for you to feel the sting of a wound long since healed. Her tongue soothes the injury, lapping at your blood, precious jade adding to her already-long list of treasures. If she had full knowledge of what she had just done, would she have done it anyhow?

You don’t want to think. Not now, when too much thought is clouding your head in the same way as the absence of it. You curve your back, push your rear against her hips, and you can feel her smile against your skin. “Ah,” you sigh under her, letting your eyes fall closed so you can concentrate on her ministrations. The hand on your hip has wandered to your mons, teasingly rubbing, and you can feel the cilia of your feminine bulge start to emerge from their slit. The only word you seem to know is “yours,” and you moan it, over and over, as the Marquise takes a mammary globe in her hand and squeezes, just right, just enough. Below you, your hands curl into fists in the Marquise’s sheets, and your toes curl in with anticipation.

“Just like that,” she murmurs into your ear, her breath heating the point of it before her tongue comes to trace its outline. “Open for me, yes, good, good girl,” has anyone ever called you good before? Her hand dips lower, and you spread for her, knees trembling. Yet she doesn’t let you fall; her strong arm around your body keeps you close to her, and she’s whispering all sorts of encouragements into your ear.

She finally touches her fingertip to the tiny cilia at the apex of your slit, and the little fronds cling to her finger gladly. “Mistress!” comes harshly from your mouth, and you’re surprised at your own wanton tone. You have never known what name to use with her; you hope this will be appropriate.

“No,” she corrects you gently, rubbing little figure-eights with her fingertip near your seedflap. “Mindfang.”

“Mindfang,” you repeat after her. The word sounds strange coming from you, but tastes good curled against your tongue. And then your toes curl harder, your hands fisting stronger, as she continues to pleasure her with the smallest of movements from her hands. You can feel the slickness of lubricating genetic fluid already seeping from you to stain your thighs. Can she feel how desperate she’s making you?

“Dolorosa,” she sighs above you, her voice a caress against the side of your face. “Rosa,” she shortens it immediately as her hand rubs against the wetness on your thighs. “Oh, Rosa, Rosa, Rosa.” Your cilia still try to cling to her fingertip, but her hand moves further between your legs, her palm nudging with exactly the right amount of pressure against your seedflap. “You beautiful thing, you.”

“Please,” spills from your mouth before you can call it back. Have you been under her sway? Is the mark of the beast on your forehead, or are you merely a slave to her touch? “Please, touch me…”

“As you wish,” she murmurs, kissing her way down your shoulder. With her index finger, she begins to breach you, and you shudder beneath her, genetic fluid easing her passage. “Sing for me,” she sighs into your skin.

“Ooh,” you start with, feeling the pressure rise within you. Then, “ooh!” a little more insistently when her finger is fully seated in you. When she crooks it forward, you moan, the sound high and desperate, and when she slowly adds another finger, you actually coo and chirr. It feels good. It feels very good. If you had known it would be like this, you would have done this yourself—but you were untouched, clean, and now you are being defiled by this marquise’s hands. “Mindfang,” you say wondrously, moving your hips against her.

“Just like that, Rosa,” and she continues to pet at you from inside. The feeling is building into something unbearable, something that makes your vascular system tattoo against her hand still on your chest, something that makes your gut clench in anticipation. “Spill.”

“I…!” That’s—that’s filthy and disgusting and depraved. If she was in this to humiliate you, she has thoroughly succeeded; the blood rushes to your cheeks, and you flush green from head to foot. “Please, a bucket, ‘Fang,” and have you truly designated a pet name for your captor?

“Of course,” she murmurs. When she takes her hand away from your chest, you collapse, your shoulders hitting her sheets, and yet her ministrations never cease. Then you feel a bite of cold metal between your legs, and her fingers get more insistent. “Spill for me, just like that…”

It gushes past her fingers in a torrent, the fluid hitting the bottom of her pail with a distinctive tinny splash, and there will never again be something quite like the first time you hear that sound. Her arm crosses your body again, her hand curling around your shoulder, and she holds you close while you shiver and shake, pouring out everything you have for her, because of her. When you can give her no more, you collapse, moaning nothing but “Fang, Fang, Fang…”

“Good,” she purrs above you. “Good.” That word does entirely too much for you; in your overstimulated state, it sings along your nerves and leaves you already aching for more. She pulls the bucket away from between your legs, sets it gently on the floor, and without her gravity to conform to, you collapse entirely, no longer willing to hold yourself up. “You did well,” she murmurs into your hair as she climbs onto the bed.

“Thank you, Mistress.”

“Fang,” she corrects you again. She rests her back against the wall, her legs splayed out in front of her; her lustrous hair falls in waves behind her back, framing her slim figure well, and her skin is tinted the most beautiful shade of blue. The tint is strongest between her thighs—oh. Oh, she was as aroused by that as you were, because you follow the trickle of cerulean up to her seedflaps to find her wanting just as you were. “Come here,” she encourages you, and there is still a hint of jade on the finger she crooks.

You follow her lead, crawling up on the bed, and her fingertip goes below your chin to guide your face to hers. She kisses you gently, with absolutely no threat of teeth. Still, you have to wonder what she’s hiding, because you can feel her menacing smile pressing against you. “What do you need?”

She can’t help it that her fangs show when she smiles. “Use your mouth, Rosa.”

“On you?” Won’t that be dangerous?

“Of course.” She runs her hand through your hair and rubs along the base of your horns, and you melt under her touch, smiling involuntarily. Then, lower, with a needy moan in her voice, “Lick me until I spill.”

She must be able to tell that you’re nervous, because she kisses you again. “I’ll try.”

“I know you’ll do better than that.” And when she guides your fingers towards her seedflaps, and you feel her open for you, you know you’ll be utterly under her spell forever.


End file.
